


Help Me Take My Life Less Seriously (It's Only Life, After All)

by justalittlegreen



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bill Denbrough Loves Mike Hanlon, Bill is a ridiculous writer, Bill on deadline, Bottom Mike Hanlon, Hanbrough, M/M, Mike getting kicked out of his own house so Reddie can sort themselves out, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Top Bill Denbrough, background reddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28275813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25





	Help Me Take My Life Less Seriously (It's Only Life, After All)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueerOnTilMorning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerOnTilMorning/gifts).



Mike answers the frantic pounding at the door with a squint and a frown to find a frazzled-looking Richie. He's managed to leave the house with a hat but no jacket, his hands jammed into the insufficient pockets of his hoodie. 

"What the fuck?" Mike says by way of greeting as he ushers Richie inside. "It's almost midnight."

Richie shivers in response, kicking off his wet sneakers. "I told him," he mumbles in Mike's direction.

Mike's suddenly terribly awake. He grabs Richie by the elbow and drags him, practically leaving his feet behind as he throws him toward the couch and plops down next to him. "You told him what, exactly?"

Richie raises his hands and shakes his head. "Everything," he says, his voice on the cusp of breaking.

"You told him you've been in love with him since you were eleven?"

"Well..."

"You told him you've been harboring a secret boner for him since the second time you murdered a clown together?"

Richie snorts despite himself. "I think what I said was, 'Leave your wife and marry me.'"

Mike's jaw drops. "...that's it?"

"There was a LOT of drinking, okay?!" Richie splutters.

Mike sighs, rubbing a hand over his head. "And?"

"I left before he could say anything."

"Jesus, Ritchie."

Richie leans over and burrows his head into the couch cushion and Mike's armpit. "I know," he wails, his voice muffled. "I'm so fucking stupid and he's going to hate me forever and - "

Mike's phone buzzes. He extricates himself from Richie's octopus grip and retrieves it from his nightstand. Unsurprisingly, it's four texts from Eddie.

IS HE THERE.  
SERIOUSLY MIKE.  
DON'T YOU DARE FUCK HIM.  
I'M ON MY WAY.

"Um," Mike calls, "Where were you when this all went down?"

"His driveway, why?"

"And you walked here from there?"

"S'not that long."

"You never walked more than a hundred yards without bitching about it, and you're walking through slush in sneakers for over two miles."

"I was drunk!"

"Well, looks like Eddie's taking the same route, so he's going to be here in half an -"

There's another pounding on the door. Richie looks up from the couch. "He's here?" he asks weakly.

"Why can't the two of you have your drama in your own damn living room?" Mike mutters in exasperation as he heads for the door. Eddie's wearing rain boots and a parka, at least. 

"Where is that fucker?" he fumes, barreling past Mike. "You don't get to just DROP something like that and then RUN, you - you fucking - "

"How'd you GET here so fast?" Mike interrupts, bewildered.

Eddie turns a death glare in his direction. "SOME of us have heard of Uber," he snarls. "Can you leave? I need to confront this asshole, and I don't want witnesses in case I do something regrettable that involves a carving knife and your storm sewer."

"You're kicking me out of my own house?!" Mike reins himself in before he starts shouting loud enough for the neighbors to hear at midnight. "No! Go do this somewhere else."

Neither Richie nor Eddie acknowledges him. Mike can't see Richie's face, but the way Eddie's standing in front of the couch, eyes locked on Richie with his arms crossed and his face furious convinces him it might be better to leave them to it.

With a sigh, he grabs his coat, throwing it on over his pajamas and shoves his boots on.

"There's condoms in the bathroom and you'd better not fuck on my couch," he calls before he slams the door behind him. He climbs into his truck and pulls his phone out, scrolling through his contacts.

Bill, bless him, answers right away. _Come on over,_ he says once Mike has finished explaining the situation. _I was up anyway. Deadlines._

Mike ignores the tiny flutter in his stomach that wakes at the prospect of spending the night with Bill, who is always horniest when he's on deadline. He glances up before he turns the car on, just in time to catch the sight of Richie and Eddie kissing in the middle of the living room. He rolls his eyes. It's past about time for those two, but fuck their sense of timing.

*

Bill's door is unlocked. Mike unlaces his boots and leaves them neatly next to an unruly pile of footwear, padding down the hall in his socks, pajamas and coat. He stops in the kitchen to put the kettle on, rummaging in the cabinets for coffee.

It's another ten minutes before he makes it to Bill's office. Bill's hunched over his keyboard, the room far too dark. Mike hits the light switch with his elbow as he comes in, holding out a fresh cup of coffee as a peace offering.

"Thanks for letting me come over," he says, curling up in Bill's reading chair. "Those two fuckers - "

"Finally got it on?"

Mike grimaces. "I'm going to have to set fire to my couch. Or my mattress. We'll find out once I get back." Bill laughs, a long, sweet chuckle that warms Mike to his toes.

Mike tilts his chin toward Bill's laptop. "How's it going?"

"Stuck on the ending. As usual."

"Can I offer you something in a death or a wedding?"

"This isn't Shakespeare, jackass."

Mike bites back the "damn right it isn't," and covers it with a smirk that says it for him. Bill puts his coffee cup down and comes over to the couch, straddling Mike's lap, his hands braced on either side of Mike's head. 

"You wanna say that to my face?"

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking loudly."

"Can I help it if you can read my mind?"

Bill dips down and kisses him, sweet and hungry, all soft lip and two day stubble. Mike slides his hands up Bill's back, digging his fingernails into Bill's shoulders until he growls. His cock stirs with interest, especially when Bill starts grinding his hips against Mike's, slow and exquisitely arousing.

"You have a deadline," Mike murmurs against Bill's chin.

Bill turns his head and pins Mike to the back of the couch with a much deeper kiss.

"Fuck it. They all get married and die," he replies. "The end."

Mike laughs and shoves Bill off his lap. "Go," he says. "Have your coffee. You know where I'll be." 

Bill grunts in reply, already typing as Mike picks up a month-old New Yorker and heads for the bedroom.

Mike has no idea how long it's been, but there's a magazine on his face and Bill's arm is snaking around his front and - 

"What time is it?" he mumbles groggily.

"Stupid fucker o'clock," Bill answers, nipping at the back of Mike's neck as he slides his hand down Mike's front, dipping below the waistband of his pajamas. "Almost three."

"You got your second wind," Mike mutters. 

"Yeah, well, someone fed me coffee in the middle of the night."

"What an asshole, that guy."

"It's true. And what have we here? Someone was having sweet dreams."

"I was dreaming that you finished a project two days in advance and then we all went to Fiji and you blew me on a private beach."

"Make it the Florida Keys and you're on."

"Why are you the only person on earth who wants to go to Fl - oh, fuck."

"That's it." Bill's voice is soft and breathy at his ear. "I know you're tired, baby. You don't have to do a thing."

An illicit thrill flashes through Mike's belly and he's suddenly ten times more awake than he was a minute ago.

"No?" he whispers, trying not to let on how much he likes the idea.

"You don't mind, do you?" Bill says. "You can go back to sleep if you want, and I'll just..."

"Use me." Mike can't keep the whimper out of his voice this time. "Gonna fuck me like this, Billy? Fill me up?"

"Yeah," Bill says, and he pauses and shifts as he reaches for the lube on the night table. "I've got you, Mikey. Just relax."

Mike's whole body sings as he feels Bill's slick fingers probing at him. He's halfway hard and trying his best to stay limp and pliable. 

It had started as a game, when Mike was too self-conscious about prep, always wanting to race to the fucking. Somehow, having Bill's fingers inside him was more intimate than getting railed into the mattress, and Mike would push him to go too quickly. One night, Bill had said, "it's too bad I can't prep you when you're asleep. You'd be relaxed and I could take my time." The idea was potent enough that Mike flipped him over and gave him an enthusiastic blowjob in lieu of a, "oh, good idea."

The game had served them well for a long time, until Mike was able to accept how much Bill enjoyed opening him up slowly (and stopped thinking it was just an unnecessarily lengthy hurdle that he couldn't overcome fast enough.)

He still loved the game, though. Loved the way Bill touched him gently, as if afraid to wake him. Loved the way it gave him permission to take what was given without the nagging feeling that he should be doing more. He lets his breath grow ragged as Bill works his fingers, feeling the pulsing ache of his cock, begging to be touched. That, too, is part of the game - riding the wave of damn-near-unbearable pleasure. Letting Bill decide when and how to ease it.

Bill takes his time opening Mike up for him, spreading his fingers just a hair, marking the near-imperceptible shift in Mike's knee that gives him slightly better access. Begging for it, Mike-style. Bill adds a third finger, enjoying the little game he has with himself - how quickly he can get Mike to break, to end the game, to admit how much he wants this.

But Mike is at least, if not more stubborn than he is, so Bill digs deeper, fingertips searching, seeking until Mike gasps, his whole body answering like he's been shocked. 

"That's it," Bill whispers. "Just relax." He makes Mike twitch a little more, just for fun, before slowly working his fingers out, waiting, waiting, and - there it is. When only his fingertips are left, Mike lifts his hips and tries to push back against his fingers. He's completely quiet, but he couldn't be more clear if he were shouting.

"Easy," Bill continues, slicking up his cock. "Don't worry, Mikey. I won't leave you empty for long."

There is something beautiful about the way Mike moves with him, languid and pliant but following like a dancer. Bill rocks them together, his arm wrapped around Mike's chest, relishing the way Mike's breath catches in his throat. Christ, this feels like home. This deep, entangled place where it's not entirely clear where he ends and Mike begins, where he is wanted, wanted WANTED, and is never too much, never not enough. He wraps a hand around Mike's cock and earns a full-throated "fuuuuck."

The game is up.

Mike's hand closes around Bill's and strokes himself in time with Bill's thrusts, and fuck, that's hot.

"Your ass," Bill informs him, his voice half-drunk and nowhere near stuttering, "is the fucking best, you know that?"

Mike breaks into a laugh, which just as quickly turns into a gasp and a hard grunt as he comes into their hands. Bill speeds up, chasing his own release, muttering, "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck - "

Mike reaches a hand back and lays it gently on his hip. 

"Come for me, Billy. Fill me up."

The words slam Bill over the edge, into a hot nothingness of stars, a freefall of perfect certainty that there is no bottom and Mike will catch him.

He always does.

~fin~


End file.
